


It's All Okay Now

by finefeatheredfriend



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Blood and Gore, Crucifixion, Gen, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, except the comfort part gets complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 08:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19330972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finefeatheredfriend/pseuds/finefeatheredfriend
Summary: Cultists capture and torture Sheriff Whitehorse for information about the whereabouts of his deputy.





	It's All Okay Now

**Author's Note:**

> I had this terrible, awful idea of one of those crucified bodies in Hope County being Earl, because he’s my favorite and I’m a masochist, and also a sadist. So I guess I’m a sadomasochist. Anyway, I give you the tale of Earl being tortured by the Peggies, and his deputy saving him, as usual.

“Please, please don’t, no more,” Earl plead, tugging again at the bonds holding his arms out to his sides where he dangled from the crucifix crudely attached to a billboard for Dylan’s Bait Shop. The cultist stepped toward him, his red wool balaclava painting an indifferent face over a snarling countenance.

“The Father will have this information from you, sinner,” the man said, and sliced another cut down Earl’s side. Earl, old, out-of-shape and terrified, cried out in pain and fear, taking a shuddering breath as he felt warm blood trickling from the newest in a symphony of wounds. He was hanging, bare-chested and bloody, like an aged, frightened Christ-figure. He had been caught with his pants down, quite literally, taking a piss as he patrolled from Hope County Jail toward Fall’s End, concerned when he had not heard from Rook in several days. He had found himself surrounded by Peggies, had been forced to drop his .44 Magnum L and hold his hands in the air, his chin held proudly up in defiance, trying hard to ignore the fact that his fly was still undone.

They had bound his arms behind him, tossed his Stetson to the ground and trampled it. At first, he had been more angry than afraid, furious at the wanton destruction of his hat, and then of his polarized, yellow-lensed fishing glasses. But then they had forcibly ripped his uniform shirt off his shoulders, had shredded his undershirt and beaten him bloody with a haphazardly made cat o’ nine tails constructed of extension cords, glass and wire before pinning his badge back to his bare chest.

Every molecule of his body had told him that it was not manly to scream, told him that pride dictated that he stay silent.

That dictum didn’t last long.

Long, bloody and bruised cuts all across his back and shoulders showed what happened to those who tried to resist Eden’s Gate. Slices along his love handles and hips further attested to the cult’s disdain for their sheriff. He had known, deep down, that part of the reason he had been re-elected was because the cultists had all voted for him. But then why wouldn’t a criminal organization vote in a law enforcement officer who was scared shitless of them?

Earl Whitehorse, the Sheriff of the county, had tried his damnedest to fight back when he was caught, kicking and head butting and using every opportunity to make his captor’s lives miserable. That spark had died in him quickly when they had tied him to the cross he now hung from. Bitter, choking on a mouthful of blood and bile, Earl tipped his head back, regretting the day he had ever decided to leave well enough alone. Leaving well enough alone had gotten him here, tortured and abused for agonizing hours. They had done unspeakable things to him, jabbing him with the ends of their rifles, cackling and mocking him, a lion caught and sheared by the sheep he should have hunted. Speaking of shearing, they had used hunting knives to butcher his mustache and his remaining hair, ripping some of it out, cutting other parts of it while laughing at his pain.

Slumping, utterly defeated, Earl prayed to a God he did not believe in for a quick death.

“Where is the deputy, sinner?” one of them asked again. Earl focused bleary, blood-shot blue eyes on the man’s face, his whole body trembling.

“I don’t know,” he wept. He wept, not only because he knew that refusing to give information would bring him more torture, but because he truly did not know. He did not know if his adoptive child was still alive, or if they had died, anguished and bloodied like him. He could only hope, gasping for breath as he hung from the cross, that if his deputy was dead, that Rook had died a quick death. One of them put a wreath of flowers on his head like Christ’s crown of thorns. This crown was kinder, for the moment. It was woven of flowers he recognized from the Jessop conservatory. They had a heady, sweet smell to them and they granted him a momentary release from his pain.

The temporary escape only made his continued torture worse.

Earl Whitehorse, the coward of the county, shrieked in agony, making sounds he never knew he was capable of making. As they sliced, and cut and beat him, his world flickering to black, he thought that perhaps leaving well enough alone was the most foolish, shameful thing he had ever done in his life.

“Sheriff,” Rook said, voice catching like they’re trying not to cry. “Sheriff, it’s me.”

Earl felt, for the first time in days, a gentle touch on his cheek. He flinched anyway, a racking sob tearing from his chest, he whimpered and held a hand out in front of his face to protect himself.

“Please, no more,” he begged.

“Sheriff. Earl. It’s me. It’s Rook. You’re okay, now.” Earl blinked blue eyes that focused on a familiar face. He smiled for the first time in what felt like months.

“Rook? Oh, Rook! You really pulled my fat out of the fire,” he told his deputy, groaning and trying to sit up.

“Shh, shh, just be still. You’re dehydrated and burnt to fuck, Sheriff. It’s alright. I’ve got ya.”

“Rook…”

“Yeah, it’s me, Sheriff,” his junior deputy assured him.

“I was wrong,” he mumbled, his entire body aching, trembling where jagged cuts are stuck with drying blood to Rook’s sweaty uniform shirt and wrinkled jeans. Earl met his deputy’s eyes, his own an icy flame of blue fury. “I was wrong. You fight them, Rook. Do you hear me? You fight those crazy fuckers.”

“Alright, Sheriff. Alright. It’s all okay now.” Earl felt the sharp, sudden jab of a blade in his back. He grunted softly, his mouth dropping open with a desperate little gasp as he fumbled, trying to grab Rook’s collar. “The Father has a plan,” Rook whispered in his ear, rocking him in their lap as he struggled, grasping at their lapels, his fingernails scraping impotently at their badge. “The path to Eden is clear,” his deputy said as consciousness slipped away from Earl, “To those who have Faith.”


End file.
